Razor Blade
by Switchblade003
Summary: 3+4, pretty angsty...Mission completed, and Trowa figures out a secret.


In a moonlit field under the stars, I watch an angel cry 

Disclaimer: Basically, I'm not responsible for whatever you decided to click on, so leave me alone. C&C is welcome, but flames will happily be utilized to burn my exam scores. Oh, and I don't own GW… It's property of Shin Kidousenki and his buddies over in the Far East, so…

Title: Razor Blades

Author: Samuel Slasher

Pairing(s): 3+4

Warnings: angst, mildly disturbing content

Notes: Rated PG-13 for content and author's strong

language 

Status: Complete

~*~

In a moonlit field under the stars, I heard an angel cry.

It is a beautiful night, the sky an endless blanket of crushed blue velvet, the stars white diamonds that sparkle in their celestial home, and the moon hangs low as it bathes the land in an ethereal milky glow. And in this once enchanted place of mysterious beauty, my partner weeps for the souls of those he had killed that day.

I have never claimed to understand the nature of human compassion, or the way it seems to cloud people's judgement, or sway one's firmly-grounded opinion, or the way it reduces such a strong-spirited Gundam pilot to a wreck of shuddering sobs. Seeing my only friend in such a state is quite strange to me, and I am not sure how to react. The pathetic sounds of his crying ring through my cockpit, carried through the comlink on my console.

Intuition tells me that comforting him would be the best thing to do, as I had seen so many times before. But my instinct says to simply stay put, and to remain in the open cockpit of my mobile suit as the boy a few hundred yards away from me collapses against the control panels of Sandrock and cries out in agony. Normally, I follow my gut feelings, for they never lead me astray, but this night, for some reason or another, I decide to listen to my heart.

It was a routine maneuver to grab hold of the safety harness, slipping one foot into it as I always did versus putting it on, and lowering myself to the ground. This night is different, though, for as I slide down the thick nylon rope towards the safety of the soft turf below, I lift my face to the heavens and I take in the natural splendor of earth. This night is definitely unusual, because I would never before have made such a simple action, because it is not necessary.

Being around Quatre Raberba Winner will change you. 

My partner has an innocent way of worming into people's hearts, or in my case, showing me that my heart is still intact after all. Battered and bruised, perhaps, but in this solid chest of mine a heart still beats strongly. He is my first, best, and only friend, and I am his shadow now. I follow him out of a deep-rooted gratitude that could never be expressed, or explained, and so I will figure a way to make it up to him someday. I normally prefer not to remain in someone's debt, but with him, I don't mind it so much.

As I break into a run to get to my friend, I chew my lower lip in a growing habitual gesture of nervousness. I have no experience with acquiescing anyone's emotional pains; I barely understand my own emotions. I have no place going to Quatre's aid. I should return to my Gundam and get Duo to come and help. He understands things of this nature. But I press onward, knowing that I have to try. I want to understand my partner's distress, and running from what I know naught of will certainly only exacerbate my situation.

I have seen him cry before. He cries at night, late when he thinks we've all fallen to sleep. Sometimes he's very loud about it, and I can tell that he must have taken out a great deal of people. And sometimes his tears are silent, but it's always the same picture to me. A frightened young boy on his knees beside his bed, head bowed and hands clasped together over his heart, praying for forgiveness of the atrocities he has committed.

The spoils of war take their toll on us all, but I think that perhaps it is the innocent that are hurt the most.

Quatre resents that; when we call him innocent. He thinks it makes him weak, but it doesn't. He is definitely the "brain" of the group, the connection that keeps us all together in battle and the voice that keeps us from falling apart between battles. I am fairly skilled at controlling what few emotions I do feel, and at hiding them from the others, but I could never hide anything I feel from Quatre. His 'space heart' knows, even when I try my damnedest to deceive it. I think he knows that I love him.

I wry smile takes my lips as I climb up to the cockpit of Sandrock, making my way to my partner. He must take pity on me, for feeling the way I do for him. I know it is a weakness, and that soldiers can't afford such trivial feelings, but for once, I don't care. I never keep anything tangible, because I'm not a material person. Excluding the cross around my neck, the clothes on my back, and the gun at my side, I own nothing. But my love for Quatre isn't something I can touch, or see, or even understand, so I accept it.

I know that a pure, aristocratic boy like him could never harbor feelings for a tainted street mongrel like myself. I accepted that a long time ago, when I was finally able to put a name to the emotions I felt for him. But it hurts. Nothing has ever hurt me before the way this does. Seeing him can bring a smile to my lips faster than I can control it, but it also ignites a pain in my chest too strong to bear, a searing flash of heat that threatens to wring a cry from my throat, and I have to turn away from him and gather my composure. It amazes me, but it scares me, too. Nothing scares me anymore, except the sweet angel I call partner.

I stand on the small platform outside Sandrock's cockpit, and for a moment, I hesitate. I can't hear him anymore, and for a brief while I consider going back to my own mobile suit. But I came all this way, and I still hear that annoying voice in the back of my head that says something's wrong, so I lift one hand and tap lightly on the cool metal frame before me. The sound echoes back at me, but Quatre does not respond. I wait patiently, listening for the gentle alto that I've grown so fond of, but it doesn't come. 

My eyebrow arches at this, but I say nothing, instead choosing to turn to the control console mounted beside the cockpit, and I punch in the passkey codes to open the hatch. People don't realize this, but all the passwords for every Gundam are the same. It's a bit of a reverse psychology theory that the scientists cooked up when programming our mobile suits. The springs inside the cockpit hiss as they expand, and the door drops down. I stand and gaze at the crumpled form laying against the control panels, shuddering silently.

"Little One?" I ask softly. I never really call Quatre by his name, and I'm not entirely sure as to why. He jokingly asked me one time if I forgot what it was, but I just feel awkward saying it. I call him by my private pet name for him, and he says that he doesn't mind it. Apparently he's never had anyone give him a nickname before, and he confessed that it seemed more a term of endearment coming from me. Duo and Wufei laugh when they hear me say it over the comlink, but I ignore them; soldiers aren't inclined to use such ridiculous terms when addressing one another, but then again we certainly aren't your run-of-the-mill soldiers.

Quatre doesn't respond to my voice, instead continuing to cry quietly into the folds of his arms. In the dim bluish glow of Sandrock's monitors I can make out the gentle curve of his back and his arms. The azure light sends highlighted shocks through his platinum gold tresses, sweat-matted and disheveled from the earlier battle. Small sounds that resemble whimpering emerge from the folds of his arms every now and then, and I feel my heart constrict tightly in my chest. What would Duo do in a situation like this? Throw his arms around Quatre and tell him that it isn't his fault? While I'm more than capable of doing that, I can't seem to bring myself to do it. Instead, I move to Quatre's side.

If he registers my presence there he doesn't show it. The blue light now cascades over the dark material of his flight suit, which clings to his lithe form from the sweat that covers him. As I take a step closer, my green eyes zero in on a line of crimson down the side of his face, and I sigh. He must have slammed his head into the console again. I make a mental note to get that cleaned up, but still remain silent. I can hear him murmuring to himself softly in vernacular, and as I drop down to kneel beside him, he finally speaks. "Go away, Trowa."

I'm not sure why, but this brings a rare smile to my lips, and I shake my head as I whisper "no" to him gently. He doesn't appear terribly happy with this, for he growls softly at me, lifting his head to scowl at me in a very impressive mockery of Heero's intimidating glare. His fair features simply aren't accustomed to an expression of hostility, though, and his handsome face soon slips into a look of reproach. "Sorry," he murmurs, bowing his head with a sigh. There are still wet tracks down his flushed cheeks from crying, and his eyes are red-rimmed and puffy.

I gaze at him wordlessly, and I'm amazed to find that even when distraught he remains stunningly beautiful. His small, uncallused hands fidget with switches and buttons on the control panel, and after a small eternity, he turns to me with saddened sapphire eyes and gives me a weak imposter of his normal smile. "Why did you come over here?" he inquires softly, curiosity coloring his sweet voice. I want to tell him that I came because I was worried about him, and that I wanted to be the one to comfort him, but I can't bring myself to say these things.

"I want to understand why you cry," I say instead, and I can swear that he almost looks disappointed. He nods, though, laying his head down on his arms and looking at me for a moment. His bright teal eyes study me silently, and I feel my cheeks burning as he does. His own begin to turn a slight rouge as he meets my eyes, and he looks away briskly. I choose not to comment on his behavior, instead contemplating his face to myself. I find myself wondering what his lips would feel like against my own, or his warm breathe against my neck…

Soldiers don't need thoughts such as these, but we often have them. I absently reflect that Quatre too is a soldier, that he may very well have the same sexual thoughts as myself, but then I remind myself of how young and inexperienced he truly is. Certainly he would be curious, but he is too innocent to have the complex sexual dreams I come up with. And he is an attractive boy, so finding someone to experiment with would not be a challenge. Why would he ever consider me when he had so many other options? And why am I to think that he'd even consider another male?

"I cry for the people that I've killed, Trowa," he replies softly, and I marvel for a moment the way my name sounds coming from his rosebud lips. "I cry because of the monster I've become, because of the horrible things I've done to people…" his voice trails of and he raises his eyes to meet mine. "Because of the horrible things I did to _you_." I frown, momentarily stunned. I still blames himself for that incident in the Wing Zero, for my brush with death and subsequent amnesia. 

Well, I can understand why he'd be angry with himself. I came very close to dying in space, and if it hadn't been for that Sweeper cruiser that had found me, I may very well have died out there. But if it hadn't been for Quatre, then I may never had piloted the Wing Zero and discovered that my place was with the other pilots, and that I really did care a great deal for my partner. I owe him for that, and he seems to feel that he should be punished for it. I could never condemn him, as he wishes to be condemned. 

"Quit blaming yourself," I whisper, moving towards him and pausing before reaching out one hesitant hand to brush his haphazard blonde bangs from his eyes, revealing the nasty cut over his left eye. He freezes at the contact of my knuckles over his feverish skin, then relaxes and arches subtly into my hand. Perhaps he does need that physical affection, after all. "It wasn't your fault, and you know that. I won't tell you again." I cup my hand to his cheek and let my thumb run over his eyebrow gently.

He flinches as I accidentally touch the wound over his eye, and I sigh. "Let's get you cleaned up." He nods, flopping more bangs into his eyes, and I chuckle softly, brushing them away again as he blushes in chagrin. As he begins to stand, he lets out a pained yelp and falls back into his seat, teeth gritted and eyes squeezed close. I turn his chair to face me, resting my hands on the arm rests, concern clouding my eyes. "What's wrong?" He hisses sharply through his teeth and swallows hard.

"I think I broke something…" he grits out, and I nod, looking down at his legs. The right one is stained with a dark crimson color, and I shake my head. He must have cut it during the battle. OZ's mobile suits pack a hard punch if you aren't careful, and he must have been thrown around in the cockpit pretty badly. I reach up tentatively to press down lightly on his right thigh, and he cries out loudly, bucking away from my hand. "Don't!"

I recoil my hand, speaking to him softly. "I'm sorry, Little One." He slouches back in the chair, his body held taught as a stretched violin string, and he gazes at me through squinted blue eyes. "It looks like you sliced your thigh. I'll have to clean it." His eyes grow wide, and I can see the protest forming in his eyes, but he says nothing, only nodding and steeling himself for the pain. He is a very brave child, but quite ignorant at times. I would never go out of my way to cause him discomfort.

Quatre makes a surprised noise when I slip strong arms around his lithe frame and gently lift him from the chair, one arm under his knees and the other under his shoulders. He blinks up at me, but I say nothing, simply lower him to the cold metal floor and slip my arms from under him. He really is quite light, moreso than I had expected, and I'll have to remember to chide him for not eating enough later on. Now, I have a cut to patch up.

"Trowa…?" he says quietly, curiously. I shake my head, indicating for him to be quiet, and reach for the zipper to his flight suit. Once again his eyes grow wide, this time filled with trepidation, and I pause to arch an eyebrow at him. "Um… Can't you do this without taking this off…?" he asks innocently. I give him a slight smile and shake my head, sitting back on my heels and waiting for a response. He relents after a second, and sighs in defeat. I proceed, pulling the zipper down slowly, until my hand nears his waist. 

I decide not to further embarrass my friend and leave the zipper there, reaching to tug the sleeves from his wrists. I take his left wrist in my hand to pull the material down and freeze as my eyes catch something. I gasp softly at what I've discovered, and he turns his head to the side, facing away from me. The delicate porcelain skin of his wrist is marred by raised pink scars, slashed horizontally across his wrist. They're razor blade marks, I can tell from experience, and suddenly, the innocent image I had of Quatre is gone in a heartbeat.

I shake my head in disbelief, and quickly pull his other sleeve off his wrist, being none-too-gentle now. He flinches at my abrupt force, but I don't care at this point. As I'd suspected, identical marks scar his other wrist. I drop his arm and back away from him, bile rising in my throat, my eyes stinging with the unfamiliar presence of tears. Quatre, my pure, unadulterated friend, whom I could find absolutely no fault in, is as twisted as the rest of us. I feel betrayed, though he never gave me any false promises of being as pure as I label him.

In retrospect, I think that I was revolted by the thought that the one pure thing I had left in this life turned out as tainted as myself. It never occurred to me that Quatre was anything other than an innocent child tossed into a war. It never registered that the battling would take its toll on him as well, and that perhaps crying wasn't the only thing he did at night. But now I know, and now I have to figure out how to deal with it.

As I look over at the boy lying on the floor of the cockpit a few feet away from me now, I feel my heart clench. He's crying again, this time making no effort to hide his tears as he lays prone on the cold steel. Now I feel guilty, for moving away from him as if I were disgusted. I had always feared him doing the same thing to me if he ever found out about the dozens of scars that marred my body, and here I am pulling away from him like he's a vial of poison. 

"Little One?" He winces as I speak to him, rolling onto his side and turning his back on me, curling into a little ball and crying harder. My heart sinks to my stomach as I move across the floor to him, kneeling behind his shaking form and laying a hand on his arm. He lets out a sob at my touch, shaking his head and mumbling in Arabic. "Quatre, please don't cry…" He sobs again as I say his name, and I bow my head. Instead of alleviating the situation, I've only made it worse. Great, I think to myself. You made him cry. 

I sigh then and hastily unzip my own flight suit down to my waist, pulling off one sleeve and the taking my partner by the shoulder, rolling him onto his back. I put my wrist in his line of vision and close my eyes as I wait for his reaction. You see, I have a very nasty habit of playing with razor blades as well, and I suppose that is what hit home with me when I saw his wrists. Maybe now he'll see that I understand. My own arms are strewn with slash marks, some old, some new. Except that all of mine are parallel to the central vein in my arm. 

Every time I cut, I mean to draw blood, and lots of it.

I quiet gasp meets my ears, and then gentle, shaking hands are taking my wrist gently. I feel the tears in my own eyes grow as his soft fingertips trace the deepest of the scars, and I wait for him to reject me, to push me away in disgust the way I did him. But the next thing my brain registers are lithe arms being thrown around my neck, and Quatre's face being buried in my neck. My green eyes fly open in astonishment, and I remain frozen in place as his sweet alto drifts to my ears, muffled by my thin tee shirt. "Trowa… You don't hate me?"

The thought of hating anyone as pure and astoundingly beautiful as Quatre seems so absurd to me that it draws a wry laugh from my lips. "I could never hate you, Little One," I reply softly. For a brief moment, we simply sit there on the floor of Sandrock's cockpit, Quatre in my arms and on my mind, and if it isn't for the fact that were been sitting in a mobile suit, then the war wouldn't exist, and we would just be two teenagers again. I slip my arms around the boy and let him lean against my chest, and I sigh softly.

After a moment, Quatre shifts slightly, and he presses his cheek to my chest, just over my heart. I look down at him, and a frown is creasing his brow. His sapphire eyes gaze up into my own emerald orbs, and suddenly my throat is terribly dry. "You should stop trying so hard to lie to me, Trowa," he whispers softly, and my eyes grow wide. There's no way he can know, I decide, and so I attempt to look confused. He shakes his head, pressing his nose to the hollow of my throat, nuzzling slightly. "I know."

I pull away from my partner as he says this, eyes bewildered, feeling as if my soul has just been laid bare to this boy without my knowledge, and he looks hurt. "Trowa, don't deny it. You're only lying to yourself." I suddenly feel the urge to run, to get away from those all-too-seeing turquoise eyes, and to try and preserve whatever sense of identity I have anymore. But I can't move. I'm frozen in place as he gazes up at me expectantly. I open my mouth to reply, but my voice has deserted me, and I realize that it's out in the open now.

I hang my head, lowering my eyes from his. I can't face him now, can't look at his face as he speaks the words of rejection that I've rehearsed for him in my mind so many times before. He knows that I love him, and now he'll tell me in that soft, gentle voice of his that he can't possibly love another boy, that it's an immoral thing to be involved in and he won't stand for being friends with an abomination against nature. He'll get that same betrayed look in his eyes that I've imagined before, and he'll very politely and nicely shred my heart to pieces.

"Trowa?" I wait for him to continue, but he doesn't, and I realize that he wants me to look up at him. I can't bring myself to comply however, so he gently lifts my chin in one of his perfect hands, and he looks at me. I keep my eyes down and off to one side, refusing to meet his gaze. Just hurry up and get it over with, Quatre, I plead silently, so that I can go back to Heavyarms, take out my blades, and purge the memory of this moment from my mind. Please make it quick, because I can't stand this much longer…

"Trowa, I refuse to talk to you if you don't look at me," he says patiently, calmly, and I give a defeated little sigh as I look up into his luminous sea-green eyes. He's torturing me, I decide, and I submit to it, letting him hold my gaze. But something is wrong with this… It isn't the way I pictured it. His eyes are soft, and he doesn't seem as tense as he should be. Is he trying to fool me? "Trowa, I want you to say it." Well, I certainly wasn't expecting to be humiliated before being rejected, but again, I concede. 

I look into those beautiful twin orbs of pure blue-green, and I whisper to him the words that I've wanted to say for so very long. "I love you, Quatre." I lower my eyes as my lips close, and I wait for the gentle alto to pierce my heart. Instead, I feel the sharp sting of his palm as he slaps me hard across my cheek. I hadn't been expecting physical violence, but I guess it's understandable…

"You bastard," he whispers softly, and I can tell that he's angry. He remains on my lap, hand holding my chin, his other hand resting lightly on my shoulder. "Why didn't you just _tell_ me?" I jerk my head up at this, opening my mouth to ask him what exactly he meant by that, but before I can get a word out, he moves forward, and his lips take mine in a firm kiss. I freeze in his arms as he cups the back of my head and caresses my lips with his own, clumsily at first, but with a growing confidence.

After a moment, he pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against mine, and he whispers once more. "Are you just going to sit there?" I feel the tension seep out of my body in one powerful rush as he kisses me once more, and I slip my arms around his neck as he pushes me onto my back. His movements slow, and his lips become more gentle against my own, now bruised from he force he had used. I pull away this time, panting softly for breathe, and he sits back on my hips, small hands taking one of my wrists. 

I let my head fall back, a smile taking my mouth as I feel his soft lips press to one of the scars on my wrist tenderly. My mind is swimming with new sensations, and I gaze up at my best friend through dazed green eyes. His own azure orbs are glassy with tears, and he gives me a brilliant smile, cupping my hand to his own cheek, then turning his face to my palm and pressing soft kisses into it. He leans down to press a feather-light caress to my flushed lips, and I feel his tears on my cheek.

In a moonlit field under the stars, I watched my angel cry.

~*~

BTW: Suicide, or so-called "cutting", is not something to fuck around with. If you find yourself developing a morbid fascination with razors or other sharp instruments, please get help. _Trust me_, you might move through whatever is depressing you at the time, but those kinds of scars will never fade.


End file.
